


We Live In Confusion Times

by spockandawe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asexual Character, Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Ignored Safeword, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as it may be reassuring to tell yourself that you simply haven’t found the right trolls to meet you on an equal footing, Cronus’s carefully suppressed frustration whenever sex enters your discussions makes you wonder—Perhaps. Perhaps you are being unreasonable. It is understandable that if sex is so important to Cronus, that he would be reluctant to formally enter a matespritship with you. Things are going in that direction, you’re almost certain they are, and you find increasingly that it is a thrill to be reassured that you are <em>wanted</em>. It isn’t easy to consider that your own rigid sensibilities may be sabotaging the only potential relationship you’ve ever had. And Cronus has told you that it’s very and inconsiderate that you would hold him to your own arbitrary standards without concern for his feelings. Perhaps you ought to. Compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Live In Confusion Times

                As it happens, you aren’t sure about this at all. Or, well, you did make a conscious, measured decision to try this, you’re just becoming less and less certain that it was ever a good idea. Cronus made a very convincing case, of course, and you were quite remiss in failing to realize the hurtful impact your reluctance to engage in sexual activities might have on your quadrantmates. And—and even if this isn’t a quadrant _quite_ yet—Well. You… haven’t had much luck with your quadrants. Ever.

                As much as it may be reassuring to tell yourself that you simply haven’t found the right trolls to meet you on an equal footing, Cronus’s carefully suppressed frustration whenever sex enters your discussions makes you wonder—Perhaps. Perhaps you are being unreasonable. It is understandable that if sex is so important to Cronus, that he would be reluctant to formally enter a matespritship with you. Things are going in that direction, you’re almost certain they are, and you find increasingly that it is a thrill to be reassured that you are _wanted._ It isn’t easy to consider that your own rigid sensibilities may be sabotaging the only potential relationship you’ve ever had. And Cronus has told you that it’s very and inconsiderate that you would hold him to your own arbitrary standards without concern for his feelings. Perhaps you ought to. Compromise.

                And Cronus’s obvious enthusiasm when you allow that sex may, _perhaps,_ be a possibility is indeed very encouraging. It’s a simple extension of those little reassurances that he cares for you, that he desires you, and he tells you over and over that this is the logical next step for the two of you, that he wants you so badly he can hardly stand it, that he’s being as patient as he can waiting for you to be ready. It comes up often, once you raise it as a possibility, and you feel horribly guilty every time you tell him not yet, especially when you can see the poorly-concealed disappointment on his face.

                So here you are. Cronus was flatteringly eager when you agreed that perhaps tonight you could try. Taking the next step. In your hive, of course, you’d never be able to steel yourself to do this in someone else’s home. But you’re still having difficulty calming your nerves. Cronus stripped out of his clothing the moment you told him yes, but you’re still tugging at the hem of your sweater and breathing too fast and shallow, doing your best to convince yourself that this is fine, this is normal, you have nothing to worry about. Cronus steps up behind you, cool and soothing as he wraps his arms around you and presses a kiss against your horn. You bite off a reprimand about making such intimate contact without ensuring that you’re fine with it first, because. You agreed to this. You’re still fine, nothing is wrong, and if you become truly uncomfortable, you always have the power to put an end to this, at any time.

                You say as much out loud. “If I ask you to wait, or, or to stop—”

                “Yeah, babe, of course.” His hands envelop yours, taking the hem of your sweater and drawing it up your thorax and over your head. You can’t help shivering at how exposed you feel. “Whatever you say.”

                When he kneels in front of you to unzip your pants, his head is on the same level as your rumblespheres, and you shiver again at the reminder of how _large_ he is. He’s hit his adult molt and you, well—You’re beginning to think you may never molt at all. An unfortunate mutation, quite possibly tied to your existing hemochrome deficiency, and of course it does nothing to affect your faculties or decrease your autonomy as an independent adult troll. But he’s so large and you can’t help being reminded that you are very, very small.

                You’ve barely had time to process the thought, and then he’s lifting your legs to step you out of your pants, left, then right, and you are completely exposed. You fight the urge to cover yourself with your hands. You have nothing to be ashamed of. The appreciation on Cronus’s face as he looks you up and down does a great deal to allay your insecurities. Tentatively, you reach out one hand to rest it on his shoulder, and he grins up at you and reaches a hand between your legs.

                You gasp and clutch at him at the sensation as his fingers brush against your nook. “Cronus, I, I, _wait_ —”

                He groans and slumps forward to lean his head against your stomach. But he does withdraw from your nook. His hands rest on your thighs, not touching you— _there_ , and you can forgive him for the way he still holds your legs ever so slightly apart, holding you softly, but when you try to shift your balance, his grip is utterly immovable.

                “When?” He mumbles into your thorax. “You’re killing me, babe, I’m actually dying over here.”

                His bulge is already twisting lazily between his thighs, leaving violet smears. You… aren’t at that point quite yet. You can feel yourself swell in your sheathe every time he breathes against your skin, but, but you aren’t sure, with the way your nerves are humming—

                “Lemme try again?” Cronus pulls back just far enough to look up at you. “I’ll do better this time, I swear.”

                You want to tell no, you want to stop, you want him to go home so you can curl up in your recuperacoon with a new book and just not _think_. “Go slowly,” you say.

                And it is better this time. It is. Cronus takes his time, leaving little touches and kisses everywhere on your stomach and legs, with patience you never would have given him credit for. It’s all so much, just so _much_ , and it isn’t long before you have your hands on both his horns to steady yourself, and it isn’t long after that before your bulge unsheathes in a smooth, disorienting rush.

                When you look down at Cronus, his eyes are on your bulge, and when he licks his lips you can’t help the rush of heat that floods your nook. He doesn’t ask before he takes you into his mouth, but you aren’t certain you would have been able to answer anyways. It’s so hard to form words when you’re so overwhelmed by so much sensation, and you don’t know if you want to ask for more or less or _anything_ , it’s all you can do to stand here and let him touch you. When his hands wrap around the back of your legs and his fingers brush up against your nook again, your hips jerk involuntarily against his mouth, and you gasp, “ _Please_.”

                He pulls back off of you, and you could almost sob at the loss of contact, but he grins up at you and asks, “Ready for the next stage?”

                You nod, you think. He rocks up to his feet, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms overhead, and suddenly you feel very small again. Cronus nudges you over towards the waiting concupiscent platform, and you stumble over, and hesitate half a moment before tentatively perching on the edge of the platform.

                Cronus is still grinning as he steps up and spreads your thighs wide with his hands, stepping up between them. You’re half breathless from how exposed and intimate this is, and you can barely bring yourself to look him in the face. You have to try three times before you manage to force out, “ _Slowly_.”

                “Yeah, babe, yeah,” he murmurs. “ _Fuck_ , you’re gonna feel so good, just lemme—”

                You make a helpless little noise at the first brush of his bulge against your nook. He’s curled down towards you as his bulge begins to press forward. It’s almost more smothering than it is comforting, but you cling to him all the same as he pushes deeper and deeper into you. It takes a moment to steel yourself to look down between the two of you, and your nutrition sac twists unpleasantly at the sight of his bulge twisting its way _inside_ you. But what is even worse is that there’s still so much bulge to go, almost as wide around as your _wrist_ at its base, and the little that he already has inside you is stretching you painfully wide open.

                Another length of his bulge pushes into you, not much, but it’s enough to send a stab of pain through your nook. You gasp and scrabble at his shoulders, “Cronus, wait—“

                “Yeah, slowly, I know.” His chin rests on the top of your head, but when you try to push him back, he’s so large and immovable and you can’t get any _leverage_. “You’re so hot I can hardly stand it, babe, _fuck.”_

                He presses forward into you again, and the rim of your nook is burning and you’re suddenly terrified he’s going to tear you open and you wish you’d never agreed to this, and you sob, “Wait, please, _stop—”_

                That finally gets his attention, and thank god, he freezes. He’s still inside you, which is bad enough, but at least he isn’t moving anymore, and you cling to him and bury your face in his shoulder and take shallow, fast breaths as you try to get yourself back under control.

                After a moment he asks, “Can I go again?”

                You can’t find your words, but you shake your head against him.

                He waits a few more moments and adds, with obvious reluctance, “What, you don’t like, want to stop _completely_ , do you?”

                You don’t respond. You’re frozen. This is horrible. The little touches weren’t so bad, his mouth wasn’t so bad, but he’s inside you, he’s _hurting_ you, your own bulge is half-retracted from the pain, but he’s wanted this so badly for so long—Your head is still spinning, and you finally say, helplessly, “I don’t know.”

                “Doesn’t it feel good? ‘Cause, babe, you feel so amazing, I can barely deal with it. You’re so fuckin’ tight, it’s so perfect—”

                You can feel his hips tense again where your legs are wrapped around him, and push back, bracing yourself against his thorax, “Wait, Cronus, it hurts—”

                He pauses, thank goodness. “Oh, that just happens, y’know?” He winks. “Bet if you filled me too, you’d be splitting me in half with that hot little bulge of yours.”

                You look down. Your bulge is, in fact, half-retracted from the pain. There’s no way it would be able to reach back to his nook now, and you aren’t even sure you _want_ to fill him, you’re still queasy from this whole. Everything. You want to be gone more than anything, but you’ve come so far already, how much worse can this get? You swallow hard and manage, “Just give me a minute. To. Adjust.”

                He sighs, and you think you catch a glimpse of him rolling his eyes, but he stays where he is. This. Isn’t so horrible. And you _are_ adjusting to it, you really are. The pain has died down to a dull itch around the edges of your nook, where he has you stretched out as wide as you can stand. You move just enough to wrap your arms around his thorax and hold him to you, just trying to relax into the contact and closeness while you steel yourself to go on. Perhaps if he doesn’t go any deeper than this, you can manage. You think you could handle that, for him.

                The ugly knot of tension in your stomach is only just starting to unwind when you feel his hips twitch against you. You try to ignore it, asking him to hold perfectly still would be a bit much. But then his hips move forward again, and again, little barely-movements that you might not have noticed, except now you’re waiting for them. And his bulge is pressing deeper again, and the rim of your nook is starting to burn again, and your fragile calm begins to dissolve into panic.

                “Cronus!”

                “What?” He’s all affronted innocence, but you don’t miss the way he takes the opportunity to push his bulge further into you. You try to claw at his shoulders, but you keep your nails so short and dull, you don’t manage to do more than leave faint violet welts. “You ready to go again?”

                “That’s—Don’t, Cronus, I can _feel_ that—“

                He groans. “Aw, come _on_. Seriously? You feel so fuckin’ _good_ , how am I supposed to just sit here and do nothing?”

                He’s still pushing into you, steady and unstoppable, and it hurts _so badly_ and there’s still so much more of his bulge to go—“Stop, please, you’re going to tear me!”

                “What?” Deeper. It hurts, it _hurts_. Cronus laughs. “No, babe, you’ve got it wrong. Ain’t gonna tear you, and you’re so goddamn perfect and _tight_.”

                “Cronus, I, I, you promised you’d go slowly—”

                “This _is_ slowly. What, you think I’m not being fair? You think I’d let anyone else be _this_ demanding? You wanna see fast, _this_ is fast."

                He pushes you down onto your back, pinning you to the platform, then jams his hips right up against yours, hard and mean, and the rest of his bulge shoves into you in one vicious twist. You. Think you might be crying. You can’t breathe. You can’t _think_. Your eyes are on the ceiling, you can’t bring yourself to look down between the two of you. You can’t even feel his bulge anymore, your entire groin is just a horrible, throbbing ache. You manage a shuddery breath. “I think you may. Have torn my—“

                He laughs. “Seriously? Stop being such a drama queen.” He reaches a hand down between your legs. You try to twist away from his touch, but he’s too large, you can’t _move_. His fingers come back red, and you think you might be sick, but he just grins. “This is just genetic material, babe. Glad to see you finally getting into things.”

                “Please, Cronus, _please—”_

                He rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Honestly? I’m already in all the way, and you’re still complaining?” You thought this was as bad as it would get, you really did, but when his bulge lashes inside you, you can feel the wave of pain echo up through your stomach. “See, that’s not so bad is it?”

                No matter how he toys with your bulge, it won’t unsheathe any further for him. You think it would retract altogether except that he’s, his bulge, it’s filling you so much that—You can’t think about that any further, you _can’t_ , and no matter how you push at his shoulders it doesn’t stop him, and even when you beg and beg him to stop he just sighs and says, “Fine, just let me finish first, I’m so close, it’ll be just a minute—”

                You stare at the ceiling and just try to breathe. You count the seconds at first, but you have to stop when it’s been several minutes, more than several minutes, and he shows no sign of stopping. Your mind bounces inanely through topic after topic, you count your breaths, you trace cracks across the ceiling, anything but thinking about the body pressing you down into the platform.

                You do notice when his rhythm changes, his bulge lashing harder and faster inside you, with the pain spreading in burning waves out from your nook. You try, helplessly, to shift away again, but he’s still as heavy as before and you can’t get _away._ He tries to kiss you, and you turn your head, staring off into a distant corner of the room as you feel him flood your nook, and finally, _finally_ , his bulge retreats.

                Cronus stands up first, and after a few breaths where you can’t bring yourself to move, he tugs you upright as well, tugging you upright to sit on the platform. You look down at the red dripping between your legs, and the lighter, more translucent smears of violet genetic material. Cronus reaches off to the side and offers you a towel. You take it, mechanically, but then you just hold it in your hands. You can’t think of what you’re supposed to do, and you can’t look away.

You finally move when you hear Cronus lighting a cigarette. He meets your eyes for a moment, and shrugs. “Human tradition, after sex. What, you want one?”

You don’t move, and look back down at your legs. You listen as Cronus begins pulling his clothing on. After a moment, he adds. “Not to be too critical, but you’re a bit of a dead fish in the sack, aren’t you? Wouldn’t even kiss me when I was coming.”

You don’t answer.

“What, you sulking now? Can’t even be happy that it was good for me?” He sighs and tosses the cigarette on the floor, grinding it out with his heel. “Yeah, fine, okay. Call me when you’re done being a wriggler or whatever. You might be lousy in the sack, but I’m not gonna write you off just because of that, I’m an understanding guy. Let me know, we can try this again.”

You can hear him shut your hive door behind him as he leaves. You just sit there, stare at the red and violet dripping down your legs, and just try to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/121449252156/we-live-in-confusion-times-spockandawe)


End file.
